


Angel With A Shotgun

by RedTeamShark



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: F/M, Rank Kink, Red Team Fuckery, Sassy Lopez, Scratching, South Cums First, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 06:01:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12248412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedTeamShark/pseuds/RedTeamShark
Summary: South joints Red Team. South fucks Sarge. It's chill.





	Angel With A Shotgun

“And… welcome to Red Team. Glad to have you on board,” Sarge finished his speech, spreading his arms. The four soldiers behind him made varying levels of effort to smile. Or, well, three of them did. The robot didn’t change expression.

South looked around, nodding slowly. This place would do. “So, you have any beer?”

“Of course not, little miss–”

“Don’t call me that.”

“–we don’t drink, we’re in the _military_ ,” Sarge continued, apparently not hearing her. Over his shoulder, she saw the orange one mime drinking a beer. Well, that was good.

“Alright, fine. No drinking because we’re soldiers and stuff. Got it, sir.” She snapped off a salute with a grin. “Guess I’ll learn my way around now.”

“Sounds good. Dismissed, troops.” Sarge paused, turning to the soldiers behind him. “Oh, and since mingling of the sexes is forbidden, boys, you’re all sharing a room. ‘Cept you, Lopez. You can sleep in the garage.”

“ _Ni siquiera voy a quejar de eso . Ninguno de ustedes entrar en el garaje._ ”

South snickered. “ _Agradable, Lopez._ ”

The one in pink–Donut, she thought–grinned. “You speak the Espanish, too? Awesome, now you and me and Lopez can all have conversations!”

–

She was alone in her new room, setting things up how she wanted them. As the only girl (“Little missy,” South muttered under her breath, laughing softly, “what a weirdo”) on Red Team, she had a fairly sizable room to herself. Not too bad, might even be considered an upgrade from the Mother of Invention.

The only downside was the thin walls. She could hear snoring through the wall next to her bed, was currently debating between cramming the pillow in her hands against the wall to smother the noise level or just going next door and cramming that pillow over the face of the snorer to smother the sound forever.

A light knock at the door stopped the debate and South looked up, dropping the pillow onto her bunk. “Come in?”

Sarge let himself in, stopping cold in the doorway and clapping a hand over his eyes. “For meat’s sake… if you’re naked, don’t tell people to come wanderin’ into your room! I have to tell Donut that all the time!”

South looked down at herself, frowning deeply. “I’m… not naked?” Was a tank top and a pair of shorts (admittedly, very _short_ shorts) really considered naked around here?

“Listen, I see enough of Officer Hotpants when Donut’s doing his yoga. At least put on a shirt. There’s probably one under the bed.”

South shrugged, crouching down and looking under the bed. There was a shirt there, all right, but there was no way in hell she was putting it on. It was a garish orange Hawaiian print, for one thing… and for another, there were a _lot_ of stains on it and the piece of cloth held a distinct odor. “Sarge, I’m not gonna wear this thing. It’s gross.”

“That’s because it’s Grif’s!”

“Look, I don’t care if you see me, uh, ‘naked.’ Really.”

“That, little missy,” Sarge stated, somehow sounding grave despite the hand clapped over his eyes, “is not the point. The point is that even if you used to be one of them Freelancers, I’m not your commanding officer and there’s certain… proprieties that need to be followed.”

Heaving a sigh, South stepped over to the doorway. She reached up, taking Sarge’s arm and pulling it down from over his eyes. “It’s fine. Really.” She watched his face, putting on just a bit of a smile. “You don’t have to treat me any different than the rest of your troops.”

Sarge frowned, eyes darting to the ceiling now that he couldn’t cover his face. “I’m not. Treating you any different. This is just what’s–”

“Proper?” South cut in, making a face. “I’ve seen this place. There’s nothing proper going on around here, especially not by military standards. I mean, fuck, two of your soldiers are married, those maroon and orange ones–”

“Simmons would _never_ marry a dirtbag like Grif!” Sarge sounded positively scandalized.

“–and no one seems to actually do anything that an army would do. So seriously, who cares if you see me in my shorts? Or less.”

Sarge paused, considering her statement for a moment. His eyes finally left the ceiling, looking her up and down quickly before settling on her face. “Fine. But I didn’t sign up to have another Donut on my hands. If you’re gonna do yoga in that outfit, you don’t do it in the common room. I don’t wanna see Donut’s hammies stretch, and I don’t wanna see yours either.”

“So then what did you want?”

“Oh, right! I wanted to ask how you were settling in with life on Red Team. We might not have all the fancy-britches equipment you had in Freelancer, no AIs or armor enhancements, but… well, we’re sorta like a family.”

“…Are you blushing?”

“No!” Sarge snapped, cheeks growing redder. “Whenever I think about Red Team, I just get red! It’s patriotism!”

“Holy shit, you’re blushing.” South laughed, covering her mouth for a moment and trying not to snort. “It’s cute.”

“Cute,” Sarge repeated slowly, frowning. “I been called a lot of things in my life, but ‘cute’ is a new one.”

“Guess you’re more used to being called ‘sir,’ aren’t you?” South’s voice lowered into something akin to a purr as she stepped closer to him. “Do you… _like_ being called sir, Sarge?”

“‘Course I do, why would I–” Sarge’s words cut off as lips met his, eyes widening. South kissed him slowly and, after a moment to puzzle out that, yes, this was reality, he began to kiss her back.

“So, you like being in charge…?” She whispered, moving to kiss down his neck. His hands found her hips, rough palms scraping against the fabric of her shorts.

“The chain of command is… is very important to me,” Sarge agreed, taking the kiss that she pressed to his mouth again. He let her lead him to the bunk, let her sit him down and ran his hands over the exposed skin of her thighs once she had settled on top of him, straddling his lap. They kissed slowly, hands exploring each other. South pushed his shirt up while he slipped his fingers under the hem of her shorts.

Sarge’s fingers found her pubic hair at the same time she reached his nipples and he pulled back, frowning slightly. “No underpants?”

“I never wear panties to bed.”

“That’s outta uniform.”

“Are you fucking serious.” She stared at him flatly, waiting for the punchline. It didn’t come. After a few seconds of silence, South reached down, pulling her tank top up and over her hair. “Suppose you’re going to say that not wearing a bra to bed is out of uniform, too?”

Sarge’s hands lifted slowly, cupping her breasts and kneading them gently. He stroked her nipples, leaning in and kissing one rosy bud of flesh, then the other. “No… That’s common sense,” he whispered, squeezing her breasts lightly, teeth scraping her nipple. South shivered, biting down on her lip to keep in a moan.

“Sarge… you sure this is proper?”

“It’s a long call from proper, but…” His hands slid down her body, into her shorts and rubbed briefly between her legs. “Sometimes you can forgo properness for more pressing matters.”

“So you’re gonna fuck me, right?”

“A beautiful woman like you? No. You should treat a beautiful woman like a beautiful firearm. Tenderly. Passionately. With great respect.” Sarge nodded to himself, leaning in and kissing her again. “Also I’m going to, ah, roll your stones.”

That probably wasn’t an actual saying, but if “rolling her stones” felt anything like the thrill that shot through her when Sarge flipped them, when he held her down to the bed and ground his hips into hers through the barrier of their clothes… she couldn’t wait.

“You look pretty as a pin-up,” Sarge whispered, pulling her shorts down quickly. His hands slid over her skin, between her legs and stroking against her slickness gently.

“Thanks? Get undressed.” She reached up, helping him comply with her demand, pulling his t-shirt up and off the rest of the way. Her eyes followed every flex of muscle, traced every line of scar and–holy shit, was that a tattoo on his hip? She’d have to explore more closely later on.

Sarge shed his clothes quickly, grasping himself and leaning over her. He stroked himself slowly as he kissed her again, feeling her legs wrap around him, her heels dig into his back. “Do we have a condom?”

“Do we need one? You have my medical records. I can’t get pregnant.”

“And some folks don’t like washing semen outta their nethers. It’s up to you because we’re both clean and babies aren’t a risk.”

“Just fuck me, Sarge.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sarge whispered, voice husky. He pressed into her slowly, inch by inch, as if worried that he’d hurt her. South would have hurried him along, she wasn’t some fragile flower by any stretch of the imagination, but… well, he was a gentleman. Even if she’d bitten him to bleeding and screamed for him to treat her like a fucktoy, he would have been a gentleman. Treat a girl like he’d treat a gun, he had said. Apparently that meant keeping it clean unless absolutely necessary, too.

The differences were stark but pleasant, Sarge rutting against her slowly rather than thrusting in and out, rolling his hips with hers. She fell into his rhythm after a little while, her breath hitching, her hands grasping his arms. “Oh, god, fuck…” South moaned, meeting his lips again and again. She’d fucked enough to earn a reputation that most girls didn’t want, but this… this was different. It wasn’t making love, not by a long shot, but it wasn’t the kind of careless fucking she’d grown used to, either. He didn’t try to stop her movements, either, letting out a gasp and rocking his hips into hers faster when she arched up, when her nails dug into his shoulders and drew long, red furrows over his skin.

“Sarge, Sarge I–”

“Permission granted, soldier,” he interrupted her, letting out his own groan. “C’mon, little missy, you deserve this.”

It was one hell of a reward. Whatever Sarge did differently, whatever movement of his hips changed, her entire body tensed as if galvanized, muscles going rigid, eyes wide but unseeing. She moaned, long and loud, drowning out the snoring that was still coming from the other room (and, somehow, not interrupting it). She rode out the orgasm, the peaks of pleasure and the slowly diminishing waves of it as she finally came back to herself. Sarge was still moving against her, grunting softly in his own pleasure.

“Your turn,” she said, arms wrapping around him, pulling him down into another kiss as she pulled his hips flush with hers. She flexed her muscles, squeezed around him and felt the way his hips twitched in response. “This is why I’m no ‘little missy’,” she whispered, squeezing around him and pulling him in. “I’m way too experienced.”

“Holy mother a…” Sarge gasped, his elbows collapsing, letting himself fall onto her. She held him as he moved against her, small jerks of his hips as he orgasmed. She let him fill her, reached up to brush a hand through his short cut hair and kissed his forehead.

They lay resting like that for a long time, feeling each other, breathing in the relaxed atmosphere that they had created. Finally, Sarge pulled away and pulled out of her. He glanced around, frowning slightly. “I should leave you alone t’shower and what all.”

“Fuck that.” South tugged him back down, kissed him again and grinned. “I don’t mind going to bed a little messy if you don’t.” Besides, a little bit of cum was probably not the worst thing that had touched the bunk in this room. If the shirt under the bed was any indication, anyways.

Sarge was gone before she woke up the next morning, not too surprising. But the spot where he had been sleeping at her back was still warm, and she was barely out of the shower, not even fully dressed, when someone knocked on her door.

“Come in?” South called, pulling her pants on, not too bothered about being in just her bra. If any of those soldiers had a problem with a girl in a sports bra, they were in for a real issue during daily physical training.

“I brought y’some–oh for god’s sake! Put a shirt on, soldier!” Sarge’s eyes darted to the ceiling, his hands full of a plate with food on it ( _delicious_ food, from the look and smell) and a steaming mug of coffee.

South laughed, pulling on the t-shirt that had been left on her floor (Sarge’s t-shirt, by the size and color) and stepping over. “I’m dressed, sir,” She offered with a wink, taking the plate and cup from him. “Thanks for breakfast. You always cook for your troops?”

“Hell no. Donut cooks. Sometimes that Doc fella comes over and helps. Them eggs are s’posed to be good for yer heart. Says that if I won’t do yoga to keep my stress down, I can at least cut down on cholesterol.”

“What a nice thing to do for your commanding officer,” South smiled, taking a sip of the coffee–solid black and almost strong enough to knock her off her feet; perfect.

“Yeah, well… like I said last night when we were…. conversatin’. Red Team is a family.”


End file.
